


All That Glitters

by lazarus_girl



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-14
Updated: 2014-04-14
Packaged: 2018-01-19 09:27:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1464268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazarus_girl/pseuds/lazarus_girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When struggling Broadway actress Santana Lopez crosses paths with her longtime fan Marley Rose, they strike up a friendship that quickly evolves into something more. Santana finds out the hard way that appearances are deceptive, and there’s more to Marley than meets the eye.</p><p> </p><p>  <em>“This is a whole other level of betrayal.”</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	All That Glitters

**Author's Note:**

> AU. Canon might not like Broadway Santana, but I do, so this is another take on what her life could be if she chose to work on stage. References are accurate where possible, and I also had great fun using the characters in different ways and creating a different world for hem to live in, particularly in writing the Kurt/Santana friendship, which is central to this piece outside of the romantic pairings (take note of the listing order, it’s written that way for a reason). Written for and prompted by the fabulous [ineedtoleavethissite](http://ineedtoleavethissite.tumblr.com) a.k.a the biggest Martana fan I know, who asked me to write something forever ago dedicated to her favourite pairing. Well, this is the something. I hope you like it! I know it’s been a long time coming. Thank you, as ever, to my dear beta [itcameuponamidnightqueer](http://itcameuponamidnightqueer.tumblr.com) who gave me some awesome nudges of inspiration, and then made sure this story cleaned up nice once I’d finally finished writing it. Title from  _The Merchant of Venice_ , which is referenced throughout, but no knowledge of the play itself is needed to enjoy this.

***

 _But love is blind and lovers cannot see_  
_The pretty follies that themselves commit;_  
_For if they could, Cupid himself would blush_  
William Shakespeare, _The Merchant of Venice_ (II.vi. 37-39).

***

It’s too hot in this damn place, everything aches, and it’s Kurt Hummel’s fault. He’s not even here despite the fact they’ve already been in rehearsals for nearly two hours. He’s late, but that’s everything to do with this guy he’s seeing and not the Brooklyn traffic during rush hour. She’s had almost a decade of living on Planet Hummel, and still Santana hasn’t learned when to say no, even when that involves lying through her back teeth as to why he’s late. It’s the lashes, and the face. He’s the prettiest boy she’s ever seen up close, and she doesn’t even date boys. That’s Kurt’s department. Even so, they’re pretty much joined at the hip. A package deal. It’s a marriage but without the joint checking account and the mediocre sex. She’s known him since they were fourteen, obsessed with making it to New York, all things music, everything theatre, and surviving the horror of William McKinley High School so they could make it the fuck out of Lima as soon as they flipped the tassel on their graduation cap.

They’ve seen each other through everything. The good (actually making it to New York) the bad (every break-up, ever) and the suicidal drudgery of chorus lines which means they can barely cover the extortionate rent on their apartment in Greenpoint. They dreamed bigger and better than where they’ve ended up, but Kurt says it’s good to aspire. She’s making a name for herself now and it’s nowhere near as weird to get people at the stage door asking for pictures and autographs, but it’s also not as glamorous as what she imagined flipping through playbills and obsessively reading Broadway.com in her bedroom, wishing to be something like the next Audra McDonald or Jennifer Hudson. The run never lasts as long as everyone thinks, and no one told her how hard it would be just to stay afloat and have steady work.

What possessed her to try out for this she’ll never know. Well, that’s lie, she does know, the sheer craving – desperation – to do something _good_. She never thought she’d actually want to go back to her high school days of playing Juliet to Blaine Anderson’s Romeo (their school track star and then object of Kurt’s affections), or Maria to Noah Puckerman’s Tony in _West Side Story_ , secretly wishing that their Velma, cheerleader Brittany Pierce, would make out with her instead of Mike Chang.

Kurt never did get Blaine, but she did manage to get Brittany with his help. The three of them were inseparable from sophomore year right until New York. Maybe she misses Brittany as much as Miss Corcoran and The McKinley Drama Society. Maybe it’s not even a maybe. It’s been a long time since she and Brittany were in touch and too many random girls in between now and then who paled in comparison to her.

Still, The Gallery Players took them on, and it’s proven she and Kurt aren’t entirely useless. The girl she beat for Portia went to Juilliard and the guy chasing Antonio, Jesse St. James, is one of was one of Kurt’s rivals from his days at Tisch, so they both dined on that for weeks. OK, so Gallery Players isn’t American Academy of Dramatic Arts, but she’s still going to do her best. There’s already talk of Broadway transfer, because the few previews they’ve done thus far have gone down well, but she never takes anything for granted. It’s all a work in progress. What they’re doing changes shape every day.

In theory, a modernized take on _The Merchant of Venice_ sounded seriously cool. Who doesn’t want to be Portia? In practice, the dialogue is a bitch, because their director, Cassandra July, is a sadist and she’s making them learn the original text before the adaptation – for ‘authenticity of speech’ or some equally pretentious bullshit – and thanks to her employing David Martinez as her creative director, there’s more movement in this than Bob Fosse on coke. Still, it beats the balancing act of waitressing, cattle call auditions, commercials, and working in tiny shows hardly anyone sees. At twenty-one, she thought she’d hit the jackpot. _Dreamgirls_ and Effie White came along just when she was going to call it a day and head back to school. Even Kurt was considering doing the same, until _Deathtrap_ landed in his lap, so they could finally edge their way out of Bushwick. They were talking about a national tour, but then a bout of flu left her benched on vocal rest, and her understudy Bree Leighton took over the role. Bree got all the plaudits. Bree got to go on the tour. Bree seems to be on the TV every time she turns it on.

Sometimes she wonders if she was stupid not to put the yards in and go to school like Kurt did, because the Bree Leighton’s of this world went there too, but then she remembers the look on the casting director’s face when she sang ‘And I’m Telling You’ note perfect and reminds herself that she doesn’t need training. You either have it or you don’t. She has to remember Effie when the part was hers and the audience was hers sometimes to keep her going when Cassandra is screaming at her about projecting her voice and fluid movements. She might be the best damn director Santana’s ever worked for, but she’s also the hardest to work for.

Sometimes, she doesn’t remember Effie, she remembers the people outside the stage door; warm and eager and expectant. They’re familiar faces to her now; some of them have followed her since before _Dreamgirls_ ; like Marley and Kitty, two sweet girls still at Marymount, practically bursting to get on a real Broadway stage who just about think she’s the greatest thing on Earth. It’s a nice confidence booster when she’s feeling low and lonely as all hell without Kurt – it’s like she’s missing a limb and it’s disgusting how dependent she’s become upon him.

Until a few months ago, Marley was just another autograph hunter, but they got talking during her clandestine cigarette breaks. Santana still remembers how shy she was, the blush in her cheeks and the dreamy look on her face when she said her name out loud for the first time. Marley looked at her like she could hang the moon.

_“Who do I make this out to?”_

_“Marley, Marley Rose.”_

_“That’s a pretty name.”_

_“Thank you.”_

And that was it, their first exchange, followed by Kitty saying “Just so you know, you’re totally fucking amazing!” all said in one breath. Then, both of them scampered away, waving and giggling and whispering to themselves.

They came back the next day with a bunch of Playbills for her to sign, and the next day, and the day after that. Then, Marley started to come without Kitty, and gradually, she started to come out of her shell a little. Once she started to talk, it was hard to get her to stop. The first thing Santana learned? _Man_ does that girl love Broadway. She eats, sleeps, and breathes it. Everything is new and exciting, just like it was for her when she and Kurt first moved to New York. Santana still doesn’t have the heart to tell her what it’s really like sometimes. Girls like Marley should still dream for a little while yet. It’s dreaming that keeps you focussed and makes you hungry. She didn’t want to be the one to burst that particular bubble.

_“What’s it like up there, on a real stage?”_

_“Well, I’ve only been on one real Broadway stage, but it’s … it’s amazing. It’s the closest thing you’ll get to knowing that magic exists. It makes you feel alive and connected to every person in the room. Every time you perform, you give a little of yourself to them. If you don’t do that, and it doesn’t feel that way every time then you’re in the wrong place.”_

_“Wow.”_

_“Yeah. It is. If you can’t wait to get up there every day, and it becomes a job to you instead of something you love, then it’s time to step off the stage. Sure, you have to work at it, but if your heart’s not in it, everyone watching will know.”_

_“Have you ever felt like that?”_

_“No, I still love it. I think I’ll always love it.”_

Soon, she was the one watching the stage door to see when Marley appeared and not the other way around. It wasn’t just habit anymore. She looked forward to it. She counted the minutes until it happened, praying for someone to make a mistake so Cassandra would call a break. Sometimes, Kurt would come out to the stage door and listen too, just so he could put a face to the name, because she couldn’t stop talking about her. He thought she was adorable, but he warned her to be careful right from the start and not to lead the girl on, but she’s never been that great at doing what she’s told.

It wasn’t intentional, and she tried to keep herself in check, but once things shifted, they talked about Broadway less and Santana found herself confiding more. More often than not, it was during their walks to Café Regular. They started as a way to get coffee for everyone and endear herself to Kurt because he loves their lattes, and then it became a respite when the cold started to bite; huddled up on the sofa, chatting. By then, it was more like talking to a friend than a fan. She doesn’t know when the line between those two places blurred exactly, but it did. Marley was kind, attentive and easy to talk to, mostly because she was the only other person aside from Kurt or Brittany who ever listened to what she had to say. Lots of people hear her, but few listen.

_“Why did you get into singing and theatre? I mean, I know you love it, but you and Kurt are really different so …”_

_“How are we even friends?”_

_“Well, yeah.”_

_“We got stuck with each other, they paired the gays together at our school. Safety in numbers! No, I’m just kidding. We were in the same homeroom and he left the flyer for the Drama Society on the desk. Until then, the only place I sang or anything was in the shower.”_

_“You never had any training?”_

_“Not unless the obligatory little girl ballet and piano lessons count.”_

_“Oh wow.”_

_“Yeah, it’s not really something I … believe in. I think it takes the soul out of everything. Not to knock people who do, of course.”_

_“Of course not. It’s not for everyone. What made you join the club in the end?”_

_“It wasn’t my choice, actually, even though Kurt had been pushing me for years. I was the captain of the Lacrosse Team. I had a lot of … pent up aggression. I was just a bitch and pretty much mad at everyone and everything, and it tended to come out on the field. I didn’t think I’d be quite as threatening to my opposition if I ran around play fighting and singing show tunes, but after I got in one too many fights, the guidance counsellor, my coach, and the principal told me I could either put my energy into something positive, or lose my captaincy and my college scholarship.”_

_“So it saved your life?”_

_“Pretty much.”_

_“I’m really glad you listened to them. You’re amazing. Talent like yours shouldn’t be hidden away.”_

_“It took me a while to see I had any or that I didn’t have to hide things. You’re not so bad yourself. I check out YouTube once in a while.”_

_“Oh, that’s just me and Kitty doing covers, it’s for fun.”_

_“They’re good covers though. You’re both really good.”_

_“Not as good as you. I can’t wait to see Merchant of Venice.”_

_“Oh honey, I wish you believed in me much as our investors. It could all go south yet. You know how much money shows need before they even make it to curtain up.”_

_“You’ll make it. I know you will.”_

_“And so will you.”_

Marley’s crush was so cute and adorable – was she ever like that about Brittany? – that she just went along with it. The ego boost was nice, and Marley’s easy on the eye, so it’s not exactly a hardship. She’s seen guys do it all the time, and Kurt’s an equally shameless flirt, she didn’t think there was much harm in it.

There wasn’t much harm until she brought Marley inside this auditorium to show her around. It sounds ridiculous, but there’s an amazing energy here, even when place is empty. You can feel the presence of the people who’ve performed here and everyone watching them. Marley seemed to pick up on it, and was even more like an excited puppy than usual. It was infectious.

They were so caught up in the moment that when Marley kissed her out of nowhere, after the shock wore off she found herself kissing back and it took her far too long to put the brakes on it. By the time that happened, they were pressed up against the wall and well beyond the nervous, desperate grab of a kiss that happened when Marley’s lips collided roughly with hers minutes earlier. It was the hot and heavy, hands in hair kind of kisses that used to happen between her and Brittany when she’d drag her into the janitor’s closet at school, and she hadn’t wanted to kiss anyone like that for years.

That kiss was the catalyst for everything else; the neat, fixed line Santana can refer back to that makes her realise when things started to escalate beyond her control.

It should’ve stopped there and then, but it didn’t. She should’ve finally started listening to those nagging doubts in her mind telling her it was a mistake, that something wasn’t right. Even when those doubts left her awake at night and uneasy and distracted in the day, she didn’t listen.

After a few days of awkwardness – because Marley was embarrassed – they fell back into step and the stage door meetings resumed. People had started to talk, but she didn’t really care. She liked Marley; Marley liked her, end of story. Sometimes she’d find her hand slipping into Marley’s as they walked to and from the coffee shop or the subway station, and it didn’t feel wrong or weird. Sometimes, it felt like they should kiss goodbye instead of waving, and that wouldn’t feel wrong or weird either.

Whenever she and Kurt would go out with the rest of the cast, no other girl was interesting to her, no matter how pretty they were. Her phone was constantly in her hand, because it wasn’t just face-to-face conversation anymore, it was texts and phone calls too. Marley was becoming a huge part of her life and maybe the attraction Santana had always known was there, lingering underneath everything, was actually mutual.

_They’re playing a bunch of Runaways songs at this party I’m at with Kitty. It made me think of you <3_

_Holy shit, you mean you’re not listening to Sondheim or Bernstein scores? How are you breathing? I’m glad my good taste is finally rubbing off._

_Funny._

_I know I am. Unfortunately for me, I’m not in such good musical company. It’s that electro shit I can’t stand. It was Kurt’s idea._

_I feel like that’s your opening gambit to many tales, Santana._

_True. At this point, I think it should be on my tombstone!_

***

By the time Kurt arrives, making a horrendous noise as he fights to open the double doors and carry the huge bag he’s loaded up with, it’s even hotter. The windows are open, but there’s barely any breeze. By the time they get this show stage ready, there will probably be snow on the ground, so they’ll be freezing their asses off and remembering this sweatbox of a rehearsal with wistful fondness. The whole room snaps to attention, and he smiles, bowing with a grand sweep. She smiles at him, relieved that there’s finally a genuine friendly face back in the room. Sure, she loves these guys, but they’re show friends, emphasis on the show. The ties rarely bind as tightly once the curtain comes down. Everyone is out for themselves, and that’s exactly the way it should be.

“Oh, he’s finally here, where fuck have you been?” she declares when Kurt draws level with her, switching his bag from one shoulder to the other.

“Long story, I’ll explain.”

“Lucky for you, Cassandra’s late, but David’s rarely been off the phone with her. She’s going to tear you a new one once he gets back, just so you know.”

“Great.”

Santana frowns. Something’s off.

Kurt’s here, but he’s not _here_. He hasn’t collapsed dramatically next to her and reeled off some ridiculous convoluted tale about how ‘terrible’ it is that they can’t find somewhere decent to rent in Manhattan that they don’t have to sell vital organs to pay for. In fact, he hasn’t really spoken at all, and that’s weird. He even talks in his sleep. There’s not even some pithy little comment about how it’s like ‘the ninth circle of hell in here’ (it is). There’s nothing.

A quiet Kurt Hummel is _not_ a good thing. The only time he looks like this is when it’s to do with his father’s health. Burt’s come through some pretty hardcore stuff.

“What’s with you? Did you even hear what I said?” she asks, waving her hand and snapping her fingers in his face to get his attention.

“Yes,” he replies, distractedly, finally sitting down next to her.

“Is it your dad?” she asks, lowering her voice, suddenly very aware of the fifty or so other people in the room.

“No he’s fine.”

She moves closer, even though she doesn’t really need to, uncapping her water so she looks busy. “Then what’s wrong?”

“Does the name Perry Newman mean anything to you?”

“No,” she answers, sipping on her water. “Why?”

“Melissa Newman?” he ventures, quirking an eyebrow.

“No! What the fuck is this, _Jeopardy_?”

“How do you not know that? Everyone knows!” Pascal, Kurt’s scheming little creep of an understudy pipes up. “He produces like, half the universe in terms of TV,” he finishes with the smuggest grin she’s ever seen. Jackass.

“See! Thank you!” Kurt exclaims, pointing to him and making her feel like the biggest idiot in said universe.

Proof, if any more were needed, that her brief stint doing that media law class at NYU just to please her mother was a total waste of time.

“Come with me,” Kurt demands, snapping his fingers.

“Really?” Santana groans, loathe to move.

“Really,” he echoes, pulling her up to standing.

“What the fuck?!” she exclaims, annoyed, rubbing her arm where he grabbed it. He’s stronger than he looks. “If this is one your riddle me this pop culture moments, Kurt, I’m _really_ not in the mood!” she declares, eyes narrowing.

“I’d rather not discuss this publicly,” he whispers, glaring at her pointedly before turning away and heading for door.

OK. So now she knows it’s serious. She can count the number of times he’s looked at her like that on one hand. Despite Kurt’s best efforts the conversations going on around them have either stopped completely or people are barely whispering. These guys can _smell_ gossip, and she’s not about to give them the satisfaction of a floorshow; she did enough of that in high school. Instead, she plays it cool, tacking obediently behind Kurt, clutching her water bottle tight, apprehensive, but desperate not to show it.

“Kurt, for God’s sake, people are looking,” she hisses, drawing level with him.

“Let them look,” he replies, dismissively, waving her forward toward the bathroom.

He doesn’t speak again until they’re inside and the door is firmly closed behind them.

“What’s with all the clandestine shit?”

“Trust me, you won't want anyone else to hear this.”

“Just fucking tell me!” she groans. “We’re not in high school anymore. Puckerman isn’t going to burst in and give you a swirly!”

“Fine,” he huffs, folding his arms. “Your little superfan Marley isn’t who you think she is.”

She glares, gripping her water bottle even tighter. “My what? We’re friends, come on. You like her. You’ve hung out with her. Even Dave has.”

“Look, it was cute before, when you’d let her ramble on about how amazing you were and how amazing Broadway is, but this _thing_ , whatever it is, it needs to stop. You’re playing with fire.”

“Kurt, honey, I love you, but I already have a mother, I don’t need another one.”

“You’re still sleeping with her, aren’t you?” he asks, but it sounds more like an accusation than a question.

“And,” she quirks an eyebrow, challenging him.

“Well are you or aren’t you?”

“Not that it’s any of your fucking business, but yes. Don’t get all moral high ground on me,” she points defensively. “I’ve seen you in clubs Kurt. You forget I was there for the wild days of suck it and see, so don’t even go there. She’s a big girl. Marley could’ve said no if she wanted to, and she hasn’t,” angered, she reaches for the door handle, hand hovering over it.

She didn’t actually mean to go that far, but she hates it when he gets all pious like this, because really, when he’s drunk enough, the boy is shameless and he’s dated some borderline jailbait in his time, so he’s got no business making judgments. He might’ve taken a long time to actually do anything about his little crushes, but _boy_ did he make up for lost time.

For a moment, he’s speechless, doing nothing but blinking, mouth slightly open, looking utterly appalled.

“I’ll ignore that,” he says, after a moment, almost spitting out every word, “because there are bigger issues at hand.”

He closes the distance that’s opened up between them and puts his hand on the door to keep it closed. Her own falls away to her side.

“Like?” she snaps. “I was under the impression there was a point to all this.”

“I was in Manhattan this morning,”

She motions for him to continue, because she’s well aware. Since he hooked up with this Dave – sorry, _David_ – Karofsky he’s barely been home, and even when he is, all she gets is ‘Dave this, Dave that.’ He’s a law grad, working at Allen and Overy and has some killer tailoring going on, which is probably why they started talking. He’s a cool guy and fun to hang out with, but it’s really starting to get on her nerves. Kurt is always super intense, but he’s even worse when he has a thing for someone.

“My cab stopped outside Sacred Heart,” he pauses, looking to see if she’s listening to him. “The school.”

“I know it’s a school honey. Surprisingly, I have retained some information from your extensive discussions on the life and times of Lady Gaga,” she smiles, but he’s not amused.

“I saw Marley.”

“How nice for you!” she singsongs, mockingly.

“For once in your life, Santana, shut the fuck up!”

Now she’s the speechless one. Kurt rarely curses, even when he’s really mad. She swallows hard, holding up her hands in defence, thinking better of speaking.

“She went inside.”

“Holy shit! Someone call the cops!” she exclaims, with a laugh.

“No, no,” he begins, stepping closer. “You don’t understand. She was wearing the uniform. She goes to the school.”

“What?” she scoffs.

“She’s still in high school, Santana.”

“Fuck you, Kurt, that’s not funny!” she pushes him playfully.

“I’m not joking.”

There it is again, that deadly serious face.

“She’s nineteen, she goes to Marymount. She –”

“No, no she’s not,” he interrupts. “It’s been bugging me ever since I first met her who she looked like, and I couldn’t put my finger on it until now. So, I Googled her, and maybe you should’ve too.”

“You did what?” she practically screeches, because _really_ who does that? Facebook or Twitter stalking perhaps, but Googling? That’s just uncalled for.

What business does he have poking around like this? What the hell did he find once he started looking?

“Kitty, Kitty Wilde is nineteen, she’s the one who goes to Marymount. Her mother is Joely Wilde, the director, but, Marley, well. Marley is – ” he trails off, looking like he’s searching for the right words.

“What?” she asks, unable to mask the shaking in her voice.

“Read this.”

He says nothing else. Taking his phone out of his pocket, he turns it towards her. It’s a Wiki page for some big shot producer. It’s the one that Kurt was talking about when he came waltzing into rehearsal, Perry Newman, founder and CEO of New Ideas Media.

“And I need to know this because?”

He takes the phone again, and when it’s back in her hand, the page is zoomed in on the section related to Newman’s personal life.

_Newman married news anchor Michelle Landry in 1982, the couple have four children: Theodore ‘Teddy’ Aaron (b. 1984), Juliet Grace (b. 1990) …_

And then, she sees it, on the very last line, jumping out at her like it’s typed in five hundred point font and all the breath goes out of her body at once. She slumps against the door; reading and re-reading hoping the words will magically change, but they don’t.

_… and fraternal twins Spencer James and Melissa ‘Marley’ Rose (b. 1996)._

“What the fuck?” is all she can manage, not bothering to catch her bottle when it falls from her hand.

Marley, Melissa, whatever the _fuck_ she calls herself, is some preppy little rich bitch, heiress to a media empire, and a Catholic schoolgirl no less. It’s so ridiculously clichéd she feels like laughing. If she doesn’t laugh, she’ll cry. Just when she thinks it can’t get worse, it does. Kurt lets her scroll the page, and she’s faced with a picture of all the Newman siblings together at some red carpet event; all painfully pretty with the same bright smile as Marley. Her mother’s smile, Santana notes, and the realisation makes her stomach lurch, it suddenly clicks for her like it must have for Kurt. Marley’s mother is the morning anchor on their news channel of choice. She’s watched her every day since forever, right from the days when breakfast was a bowl of Lucky Charms to yesterday, when it was Advil with a black coffee chaser to cure a killer hangover.

“Oh fuck! Fuck, _fuck_!” she says, over and over, like some weird, useless mantra as she paces around the bathroom kicking randomly at the stalls, wondering when the cops or the FBI are going to bust in and arrest her.

And that’s when the panic hits her like a truck, blindsiding her: Marley lied. Maybe she lied about all of it. She’s some little rich bitch’s gay experiment. She’ll be something to talk about at parties with her friends that’s called a life experience, because sleeping with a woman is considered ‘cool’ and something to do on the way to bagging Mr Perfect and the big house with the white picket fence. She can usually spot those types a mile away. That shit gets old. Fast.

“Santana, Santana!” Kurt yells, reaching out and catching hold of her. “Relax,” he instructs, calm and soft, holding her still by the shoulders and forcing her to look at him. “Breathe.”

She nods, and tries, but it feels like her lungs won’t fill enough, and she’s getting dizzy, not sure if she wants to throw up, cry, or break everything in sight out of sheer rage (or a combination of the three). Of all the stupid shit she’s done in her life, this beats everything. It didn’t even occur to her that Marley might be lying; the girl looks too damn sweet and innocent for that. This is payback for all her shitty behaviour during ill-advised one-night stands and passing flings.

Now all she can think is she’s been a fucking idiot. Marley got her good. Thank God she _is_ Newman’s kid, he can pay who the hell ever to suppress an exposé should the rumour mill start to turn. That’s not the kind of column inches she wants.

Why did that even cross her mind?

Then other things cross her mind, like how much Marley knows about everything. How much of herself she gave away. How far and how easily she let her guard drop after years of keeping her feelings locked up tight after her atrocious, messy break-up with Brittany meant she lost her girlfriend and her best friend at once, and that left her wanting to feel nothing at all.

Now all she feels is betrayed. She never should’ve trusted Marley in the first place.

“She’s closer to eighteen than seventeen,” he pauses until she dares to look up. “I checked, so you’re fine. No orange jumpsuit for you,” he reassures, with a small smile. “It’s not your colour anyway.”

It takes a few seconds for what he’s said to actually sink in, but once it does, she breathes a huge sigh of relief, but in the end, it’s only enough to take the edge off the sting of all this. Given that she was queen of the fake ID, she’s usually really good at figuring out when girls dress older than they are, but Marley, and that night at Slake in Midtown changed everything.

It was just her, Kurt, and Dave. She invited Marley last minute, not expecting her to come because she and Kitty were in the middle of rehearsals for a recital, but she wasn’t in the mood to play third wheel either, so she did it anyway.

_Feel like coming out to play? It’s no fun without you._

_Text me the directions. I’ll see you soon xx_

Eight unexpected words, that’s all it took in the end, for her perception of Marley to shift. Half an hour later, and her unwritten rule about waiting until sleeping with her got torn up. It got shredded the second the swathe of people surrounding her and Kurt suddenly started to part, and Marley was revealed, because half an hour later, when she showed up, looking very un Marley-like in a short skin-tight dress and heels; hair curled with full make-up. Her outfit wouldn’t have looked out of place in Santana’s own wardrobe and she’s never been more pleasantly surprised. Marley’s always been pretty to her, sweet and unassuming; not entirely aware of her own beauty – which made her more attractive somehow – with that whole folksy, preppy-ish vibe going on, but she’d never considered her hot before. She can still remember Kurt’s awed declaration of “holy shit, someone dressed Cinderella for the ball,” and Dave’s “wow” when he returned with a fresh batch of drinks moments later, but she remembers nothing of what they said to each other (most of the time, she couldn’t even hear Marley over the music).

The whole evening is a blur of drinking sickly sweet cocktails, pressed close dancing to terrible music, minutes lost to kissing. It was the first time in a long time that she truly let go and just enjoyed herself, instead of pretending just to make other people happy. She was nineteen again instead of twenty-four, and everything felt limitless. It was liberating. It was dangerous.

Maybe that’s why she made the choice she did. Maybe it was the alcohol giving her a false sense of freedom and making Marley bolder and more tactile than she usually was. Maybe that’s why it felt simple, easy and completely natural to whisper another eight words, right into Marley’s ear: “Do you want to get out of here?”

Those words and everything followed them, aren’t a blur. They’re startlingly, inescapably clear, and she wishes they weren’t.

The cab ride to Marley’s apartment on the Upper East Side, where they spent the journey flirting with each other, erasing the very last of that thin, thin, resolve she had about being good and proper. All the while, they played nice, keeping the conversation going, watching each other and shifting closer along the seat until they were kissing and groping each other, not caring who saw what. In the end, there was no talking, and she had her mouth latched on to Marley’s neck and her hand on Marley’s knee, inching under the hem of her dress, tracing patterns on her inner thigh, nudging her legs apart fractionally, cupping between them and rubbing just so; a tease, a test, a prelude. The delicious gasp Marley made at the contact still rings in her ears weeks later. She tipped the driver an extra twenty bucks just so he’d keep quiet about what he might or might not have seen going on in his backseat.

The sway of Marley’s hips as she followed her up two floors of stairs to her apartment They were both drunk, giggling and shushing each other as they passed the concierge who gave them a knowing smile.

The rough press of Marley’s lips against hers moments later in a heated kiss as they practically fell through the just opened door. Things progressed quickly after that. They were both too far gone to have stopped it, even if they wanted to. They kissed and kissed and kissed, shrugging off jackets, tossing away their heels, until they’d crossed the apartment to Marley’s bedroom. When they broke away, panting and breathless, Marley looked different, and not just because her perfect make-up was gone; smeared beyond all recognition or because her immaculate curls were mussed up just the same. Marley had always wanted her. She knew it, but in that moment, she wanted Marley just as much.

The unmistakable fire in her belly as she reached for the zipper of Marley’s dress, tugging it down as slowly as she dared, kissing and nipping teasingly at the newly exposed skin as she went until the dress was just a pool on the floor and the underwear beneath it slid down same path; listening to every hitch of breath and gasp of surprise. The biggest one happened when Santana sank to her knees, hands resting on Marley’s hips to steady her and ran her tongue with teasing slowness through Marley’s already slick folds. They didn’t make it to the bed even though it was only feet away, spending the rest of the night on the floor, touching and kissing everything they could reach until they were breathless, sweaty, sated, tangled up in each other with only the throw from Marley’s bed to cover them.

The faint beginnings of morning light changing the temperature of the room, warming Marley’s pale skin, back arched in pleasure, hips lifting to chase the friction of Santana’s fingers as they eased in and out of her in a lazy, practiced rhythm; curling at exactly the right moment. Now she didn’t just look at her like she hung the moon, she looked at her like she could see stars too.

The moment Marley came for her, because of her, for the first time, is the clearest thing of all. Her release was loud and expressive; a hiss of pleasure and surprise at once. Santana should’ve known then, that maybe it was her first time at all. The clues were there: her sweet, doe-eyed reticence that she couldn’t quite cloak and was more than just her natural shyness; the overeager curiosity that wasn’t just about wanting, it was about being desperate to please and not quite knowing what to do; the unease she felt in her own skin, awed by Santana’s own nakedness, because mutual desire was as real and new as every other sensation Marley was feeling, she just chose to ignore them.

Maybe there were other signs she chose to ignore too for the sake of not wanting to ruin a good thing. Signs like missed calls and poor excuses that added up to nothing on their own but something when strung together that signalled the start of unravelling lies. It was just a matter of when the invisible clock would tick down and strike twelve. It didn’t so much strike, but ignite.

She’s still lying in the barely cold ashes.

“Kurt, what the fuck do I do?” she asks, because there’s nothing else she can think of, teetering on the brink of crying.

“Oh Santana,” he says, in the saddest, softest voice she’s ever heard. “Come here.”

She doesn’t fight it when he wraps his arms around her or kisses her atop the head. She doesn’t question it when she finally breaks down – more a quick release of anger and frustration than sadness – and he doesn’t either.

“It’ll be OK. We’ll fix this,” he assures her as she lets out another choked sob, despite herself. “You do know you have to break up with her.”

“I know,” she mumbles into Kurt’s shirt.

“You can’t have a relationship based on a lie, sweetheart.”

He’s only called her that once before now. It sets off a fresh streak of tears rolling down her cheeks that she stubbornly refuse to give into, swatting at her face to clear them.

“You already know how bad that feels,” he sighs heavily. “You deserve better.”

He’s right, she knows that. Her hands are tied. She’s got no other choice. Not now.

“I’m sorry,” he offers, genuinely, and somehow it makes her feel worse rather than better.

“Me too,” she sniffles, letting him hug her again.

“Come on,” he says after a moment, guiding her to the sink. “Can’t have you going back into rehearsal with panda eyes. Not becoming for a Shakespearian heiress!” he continues, dabbing at her face carefully. “There,” he steps back a little, giving her room, and it feels like she can breathe again. “A goddess once more.”

“Not so sure about that, Kurt,” she replies quietly, regarding herself in the mirror.

“I am,” he assures her, giving her shoulders a comforting squeeze. “Know what else I’m sure about?”

“What?” she asks, smoothing out her hair, meeting his gaze in the mirror.

“That we’re going to nail this rehearsal and remind everyone in that room why we’re here. Then, you’re going to confront Marley and finish this on your terms. The Santana Lopez I know and love wouldn’t let herself be walked over.”

“I fucked up too.”

“Yeah, you did,” he begins, touching her forearm, “but the only thing you’re guilty of is telling the truth. No one forced her to keep lying did they?”

That, she has to admit, is true. Until she came out – or rather, until an unfortunately timed make out session with Allison ‘Mack’ Mackenzie under the bleachers at school outed her – she lied to her parents every day, but it was mostly by omission. She was clever and resourceful, but it was never this involved. Not even when those lies took the form of elaborate tales to random girls she’d never see again. But this? Day in, day out when she’d practically told Marley her life story? This is a whole other level of betrayal.

“This is her loss. This is her mistake. Do _not_ beat yourself up about it.”

She’s not entirely free of blame, and they both know it, but at least where Marley was concerned, she never lied and never made promises she couldn’t keep. That’s not her style. Things got messy and emotional, and when that happens, she just reverts to her classic behaviour of keeping the world at arms length, while her anger, confusion and unhappiness builds up inside; toxic. Only this time, she didn’t have a lacrosse field to run down, she just had mile after mile of New York sidewalk, and it’s nowhere near long enough.

They’re meant to meet today as usual at Café Regular once rehearsal is over, but almost a week has passed since they’ve been in contact. She doesn’t want to go, but she doesn’t have any choice in that either. All she wants to do is delete every trace of Marley from her life; every text, every voicemail, every picture, all of it. Gone. Even when that happens, there will still be remnants of her; sticky and unavoidable that are left behind. She knows from experience. Maybe they could’ve stayed friends before they slept together and things got even more complicated than they already were, but now, it’s impossible.

***

Somehow, she makes make it through the rest of rehearsal.

It crawls along and she’s distracted for almost every second. She’s atrocious throughout as a result and spends most of it being yelled at by Cassandra, but not before Kurt gets reamed out for his lateness in front of everyone, much to the delight of Pascal who’s practically itching to step in and correct him anytime he makes a mistake. Cassandra rides them so hard that she’s got no problem finding the anger she needs to direct at Marley for what she’s done. Every time she’s paused for breath, Zoe, her own understudy has somehow ended up in her line of vision; giving her to extra push to get through the last hour and try to make up for all the missed line cues and fuck ups with David’s blocking earlier on.

It’s a miracle she hasn’t been fired. It’s a miracle she and Kurt both haven’t been fired.

By the time they arrive at Café Regular, having walked arm in arm from the theatre, she’s still keyed up, questions at the ready, because if Marley can’t admit what she’s done, Santana’s sure as hell going to ask why she did it. OK so she didn’t anticipate ending up in her very own episode of _Catfish_ , but she’s not going to give Marley the satisfaction of seeing her weep and wail over it.

She has to take something away from this, even if it’s victory by the thinnest of margins.

He orders them lattes out of habit while she settles herself at a corner table watching the door for any sign of Marley, picking at the loose thread on the cuff of her jacket and listening to the tap-tap-tap of her heel on the floor, leg bouncing up and down with nerves. She’s late, and for once, Santana’s glad. She’d be even gladder if Marley never showed at all because of how she’s been treating her, but it rarely works. Somehow, Santana has a weird Pavlovian magic that makes women come back to her time and again even when she’s a selfish bitch and reduces them to little more than a booty call. Professionally, she’s pretty pleased with how things are progressing, but personally, she’s pretty much the same mess she was when she pitched up here with Kurt six years ago.

It’s pretty bleak, but the bleakest thing of all is she was starting to consider that Marley might be different to all the other girls.

“I’ll be right out there if you need me,” he reminds her, gesturing to the street as he places two latte cups carefully in front of her, like he’s afraid she’ll startle.

“Thanks,” she nods, genuinely touched. “If I start screaming, run in and get me, and then we can make a break for it together.”

“What do I do if she starts screaming?”

“The same,” she shrugs, taking a sip of her too-hot drink. “But maybe call the cops or an ambulance or both. My mom can talk us out of lockup and then my dad can fix whatever’s left of my face! I knew it’d come in handy being the daughter of a doctor and a lawyer one day!” she laughs bitterly.

“Will do,” he nods, with a weak smile, offering his own cup in toast.

Kurt couldn’t fight his way out of a wet paper bag and they both know it, but it doesn’t matter, because the second she so much as tilts her head wrong, she knows he’ll sweep in and rescue her with some choice vicious words to cut Marley down to size. Quite the white knight, she’s seen him in action a lot over the years. Back at McKinley, it was in the locker room, debate class or on student council. These days, he’s just as when it happens in a club full of people on the odd occasion she’s gotten unwanted attention she can’t handle by herself. For someone so mild-mannered, he can be magnificently terrifying when he wants.

Their original plan was for him to stay inside and sit at a table further away from them, but she couldn’t take him being so close and knowing he was there, listening and watching. More that that, she knows that the second it gets remotely heavy, he’ll be up out of his chair before she can draw her next breath, so he’s exiled to the street until it’s all over.

The enormity of it hits her as she watches Kurt leave, holding the door for the girl that comes in next: she’s going to break up with Marley. It’ll all be over. Sooner rather than later.

***

It takes another ten torturously long minutes for Marley to arrive. One minute more, and Santana would’ve bailed for the sake of her own sanity and to stave off potential caffeine overdose, because the cup Kurt bought for her is gone and she’s seriously contemplating drinking Marley’s before she walks in.

The moment she does, Santana forgets to breathe, and her heart picks up. Marley looks beautiful, in her jeans, blazer and scarf. Her hair is smooth and sleek, and she’s wearing barely any make-up. When she’s closer, Santana can smell the light floral scent of her perfume.

She hates herself for being so completely captivated.

“Sorry I’m late,” she offers, apologetic, pecking her on the cheek before she slides into the seat opposite, putting down her bag. “Traffic sucks at this time of day.”

“It’s OK, you’re here now,” she smiles thin and tight, playing along. “Coffee should still be hot.”

She doesn’t want to even think of the myriad of reasons why Marley’s late or lies she’ll spin to cover it all up. How she manages to show the restraint not to slap her right there and then or call her out straight away, she’ll never know.

“Hazelnut latte,” Marley notes, with a smile when she takes a sip. “You remembered.”

“Of course. Double shot, no sugar. I have a good memory for details like that.”

The irony of that statement isn’t lost on her.

It feels different already.

Everything is tainted. Every tiny thing: that beautiful bright smile; the sweet little peck of greeting; the soothing soft lilt in her voice. Days ago, they were the little things that kept her awake; that made her know she was dangerously close to falling in love and sent her barrelling in the opposite direction because she’s afraid of what it all means. Now, it’s making her skin crawl.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” she admits, after silence quickly opens up.

“I did think twice,” comes Marley’s measured reply. “I’m just as surprised to see you.”

She swallows hard, fingers curling into tight fists underneath the table. If only she’d had the good sense to think twice throughout all this, maybe she wouldn’t be in this mess. Admittedly there are large chunks of time they’ve spent together where she wasn’t really thinking at all, and that’s the problem.

“I don’t know if I did something wrong the other day, but I thought we had something good.”

For a few seconds, she just stares in disbelief, because how can she even begin to respond without flying off into a rage and make a complete idiot out of herself - an even bigger one than she already has. Marley looks even more hurt and confused than she did last week when she kicked her out of the apartment. OK so it was a harsh and probably uncalled for; fight or flight kicking in, hard, but it was too much. It was all too much for her to deal with. The kindness and the intimacy and the fact there was a morning after at all, having breakfast with Kurt and then making plans for their day together like a real couple.

Gone were the days of leaving notes and sneaking away into the rush hour traffic with a headache and a ton of regrets and she just couldn’t do it.

_I had fun last night. We should do it again sometime xx_

Marley wanted too much and expected too much and Santana was getting far too comfortable and attached and terrified of disappointing her. It was only meant to be a fun thing until the company left for the preview run in Boston, if it lasted that long. Jesus _fucking_ Christ isn’t she paying for it now.

She leans forward, trying to keep calm when every fibre of her being wants to either strangle Marley or just walk out and get the train back to Greenpoint with Kurt. Across the street, she can see him pacing and nursing his coffee, clearly nervous, but if she bailed on this once and for all without getting answers, she’d feel even more cheated than she does already.

“So did I,” she begins, careful. “But it was starting to get too involved. We were getting dependent,” and then because it’s the truth, “it was too much. I felt too much.”

“What’s wrong with that? I thought you were happy, that you wanted this.”

“I did,” she nods. “I really did, but I don’t think I can be with someone who can’t tell me the most basic of truths.”

And there it is. It’s out there. For her, the world is somehow still turning, but she’s watching Marley’s slow, stop, and come crashing down. Her face falls, and the colour drains out of it completely.

“Wh-what?” Marley stutters, cornered.

“I know,” is all she says next, watching the flicker of panic in Marley’s eyes grow. “I know who you really are Marley, or should I say, Melissa. I read your father’s Wikipedia article. Kurt was kind enough to share it with me.”

With that, she sits back again, feeling ever so slightly smug.

“I can explain!” Marley pleads, reaching across the table to take her hand.

“Don’t!” she exclaims, yanking her hand away. “You don’t get to do that,” she shakes her head. “I don’t want you to explain anything. Mostly because I can’t believe a word that comes out of your mouth!”

She said that louder than she meant to, and now people are looking. The tall barista with the glasses at the counter who served Kurt looks over at them, concerned. She has to shut this down. She has to shut it down now.

“Please don’t do this!” Marley begs, tears in her eyes. “You don’t understand. I didn’t mean to keep doing it. It just happened!”

“It happened a lot, huh?” she scoffs. “You lied. You lied more than once,” she replies coolly. “To. My. Face,” she leans forward, spitting out every word.

She’s trying not to get angry, but Marley’s making it really, really hard not to. She’s also making really hard to stay angry once she lets herself be. This girl – kid – is a mess. How the hell did she not see it before?

“Once you tell people they always act differently,” Marley replies, sniffing back tears. “I never know if people like me for me or my father’s money or to get them on a TV show,” she pauses trying to gather herself. “I wanted someone to like me for me,” she gulps in air barely able to keep it together. “I wanted someone to love me for me.”

“And maybe I did,” she spits, without thinking.

For a few long moments, they just look at each other and it finally registers with Santana what she just admitted.

“Did?” Marley asks, barely audible.

“That’s the worst thing about this you know,” she begins, blinking away the tears that are forming and threatening to fall. “I wouldn’t have cared who your father is. I don’t give a shit about any of that. I don’t want your fucking money or your dad’s connections. The fact you think that little of me …” she tails off, disgusted.

Marley shrinks back in her seat and any second, Santana think she’ll break down completely or just get up and run.

“No no, it’s not like that!”

She keeps saying that. The more she says it. The less true it seems.

“You know what I _do_ give a shit about?” Santana begins, taking a breath to steady herself, feeling her anger growing, “that you didn’t trust me enough to tell me the truth when I told you everything about me. You’re seventeen! Jesus Christ!”

“I’m almost eighteen,” Marley corrects, quietly.

“Oh, now you care about the truth? You only care because I found out!”

Whatever resolve she had to stay calm is gone, and once the questions start coming out of her mouth, they won’t stop.

“Was any of it true or was it all one big clusterfuck of lies? Were you and Kitty just bored? Is Kitty even your friend? Did that apartment even belong to you or are you adding breaking and entering to the list?”

“I’ve known Kitty since I was five years old. Her mother knows mine. The apartment belongs to my sister, Juliet. She lets me use it when I want. Marley is what my dad used to call me when I was little and it stuck.”

Santana just nods, motioning for her to continue, barely able to look at her because every time Marley says something, it looks like the weight she’s carrying is getting lighter. She knows that feeling.

“Kitty and I never planned this. Please believe me. I never lied about the way I felt about you, Santana,” Marley finishes, voice giving out. “Never doubt that. Juliet took me to see _Dreamgirls_ for my birthday. You were Effie White. The moment you came on stage, I just knew. You were amazing and I couldn’t take my eyes off you. I fell in love with you, right there and then.”

The moment Marley says it, she looks up and wishes she hadn’t because it’s there. That look. The same look as that morning when they woke up still wrapped up in each other at the apartment. So pure and genuine, that she couldn’t mistake it for anything other than the truth. The difference has been there all the time if she’d looked closely enough, but it’s too little, too late.

“Oh Marley,” she breathes, shaking her head sadly.

“Don’t throw this away.”

“I think you already did that,” she declares with a heavy sigh.

Suddenly, she doesn’t have it in her to be angry anymore. It’s futile.

“But I love you! We could do it, we could make this work. That’s what matters right?”

In an ideal world, Marley would be right. Love would be enough, but it’s not an ideal world.

She looks away because she can’t stand the way Marley’s looking at her. It’s tugging hard at her heartstrings. Harder than she ever thought it would do, but then she’s never been good at dealing with feelings. Feelings are why they’re here. As soon as she crossed the line so it became more like making love than fucking or quickies in bathrooms, alleys, and elevators; when Marley was the one settled between her legs going down on her instead, it was over. She couldn’t lose control. Not like that. Not again. Brittany taught her that lesson.

For once, her fear of letting someone get too close was justified.

“You’re in love with an idea of me, honey,” she says, taking Marley’s hand carefully in both of her own.

OK, so she’s gotten to know more of the real Santana Lopez than most people, but deep down, they both know that a big part of this was about wish fulfilment. Whether Marley wants to admit it or not, she’s still in love with a girl on a stage – Santana Lopez the promising starlet.

“Don’t. Don’t do this.”

Marley’s about ten seconds away from sobbing and Santana can’t breathe right all of a sudden.

“You’re a sweet girl, and I really like you. I _really_ do, but I can’t. I can’t be what you want. I can’t be what you deserve either. We’re at completely different places in our lives. It wouldn’t be fair to either of us.”

Marley looks down at their joined hands, starting to cry, and she feels that sadness too, heavy and unexpected. It would hurt less if she cared less. Perhaps she cared even more than she thought.

“I have to go to Boston for the previews of _Merchant_. I don’t know what’s happening or where I’ll be,” she pauses and waits until Marley looks up again. “I think it’s better if we just give each other some time. A little space between us might be a good thing.”

All at once, it finally seems to register Marley what she means. “This is over, isn’t it?” she asks, like she’s some fairytale princess coming to the end of her story and she’s not ready. Surprisingly, neither is Santana.

“I think so.”

Against her better judgment, she stands up, and pulls Marley into a hug. Marley lets out a pained whimper at the contact, and it lingers for longer than it should do. Out of habit, she kisses Marley atop the head, but it feels like the right thing to do.

Marley’s trying her best to smile. Neither of them says anything for what feels like a long time, because what you do say? Sorry? Have a nice life? It seems that neither of them knows, so they just end up just looking at each other, trying to keep hold of whatever this is before it slips away. Santana expected rage and yelling, she didn't for one moment think that her overriding feeling would be a desperate, bittersweet kind of sadness she’s rarely encountered.

“Take care,” she whispers, and finds herself hugging Marley again for no reason at all. “Be happy,” and then when she pulls away to look at her, brushing away freshly shed tears with her thumbs. “Be honest.”

Marley nods, sad and resigned. Santana’s not angry with her anymore. How could she be? Marley doesn’t see this as kind now but she will eventually. Maybe she will be a learning experience for her, but in an entirely different way to what she envisaged.

“Good luck in Boston,” Marley says, softly, stepping back and picking up her bag.

The distance between them feels a lot longer than it looks.

“Thanks,” she replies, mouth just curving into a smile.

“I’m sorry, Santana,” Marley offers, genuinely apologetic. “Truly.”

It’s then that Santana sees Melissa and not Marley for the very first time.

“Not as sorry as me, honey.”

They don’t actually say goodbye, at least, not in words. Instead, Marley – Melissa – waves in the same sweet, slightly awkward way she did the first time she came to the stage door with Kitty. Santana waves back, rooted to the spot, watching her get farther and farther away until she isn’t there at all.

She’s not sure if she’ll ever see her again, and right now, that might not be a bad thing.

***

They’ve been home for an hour and a half. She’s cried a lot, drank a lot of cheap beer and they’ve eaten their body weight in pizza and ice cream because Kurt’s rule in moments like these is to comfort themselves with alcohol, complex carbs and sugar. She didn’t put up a fight, because she knows it works, and she didn't really have the energy to argue. It’s been a very long day.

She hadn’t imagined this would be such a big deal, but the fact Kurt’s cancelled his date with Dave just makes her feel worse, because it’s become one without her notice.

“Was it as horrendous as it looked?” Kurt asks, when they’re sitting on the floor in her bedroom surrounded by the contents of her wardrobe in the middle of packing for Boston.

She doesn’t really want to go, but she’s got no choice, not if she wants to keep her part anyway. Kurt thinks it will be good for her to get a change of scene and refocus. That’s what he said when she broke up with Brittany and Kurt dragged her on a road trip to his father’s new place in Fort Lee, when they were between jobs. They spent two weeks there, in a weird kind of emotional rehab and got mothered, fussed over and fattened up by his angel of a stepmother, Carole. It worked wonders. Boston could do the same if she lets it. She’s not sure what she wants right now beyond her bed and double-digit hours of sleep.

It won’t happen.

“Pretty much,” she shrugs, folding a sweatshirt again to try and fit it in the tiny space she has left in her suitcase.

“Oh,” he sighs, snatching the sweatshirt from her and refolds it.

He does it better, of course. While she waited tables at The Spotlight Diner and auditioned for everything in sight, he split his time between classes at Tisch and working at Rothmans menswear, so he can do this stuff in his sleep. She knows it’s busywork, like when they’d talk in high school while they picked audition pieces for the next Drama Society production or sang along to whatever playlist was running. That way, she’s distracted enough to talk and perhaps share more than she ordinarily would, but in all honesty, she _wants_ to tell him now, just to offload some of what she’s been carrying. Sneaking around and hooking up is fun, but it takes one hell of an emotional toll. They don’t tell you about that in _Cosmo_.

“I’m sorry.”

She’s heard that a lot today, particularly from Kurt, but there’s a different tone to this one, like he actually means it and he’s not just saying what he should.

“It was harder than I thought,” she admits, glancing up at him when a flash of red material crosses her vision.

“I figured,” he replies sadly, casting one of the dresses he just picked up aside. “One for the no pile, honey.”

“I like that dress!” she protests, reaching across for it.

“So do I. You look amazing in it, but we’re going to get investors, not hook up!” he cringes, immediately realising what he’s said. “Poor choice of words,” he backtracks quickly, patting her hand.

“I know what you meant. It’s alright.”

She has a reputation, she’s well aware, but sometimes she doesn’t like to be reminded of it. Especially not today.

“You really liked her, didn’t you? I don’t remember anyone staying around for breakfast before. That’s pretty much your deal breaker.”

“Yeah. I did,” she admits, addressing her reply to the suitcase instead of him. “You know me. I don’t do feelings.”

“And you felt a little too much, huh?” he asks, prodding her slightly, but it’s nothing like what he’s usually like. He could give the Inquisition a run for their money.

His kindness is always unsettling, not because he doesn’t care, because he does, but because she always equates normality with them exchanging banter and insults, not deep and meaningful conversation. She doesn’t like what that difference means.

“Something like that.”

“I knew it! I knew it when she stayed over you were doomed, but I also knew you were totally crazy about her. I know all your tells. I know when you’re about to push the self-destruct button too. Luckily, I’m also well-trained at picking up the pieces.”

“Some warning would’ve been nice, Hummel,” she says, throwing a nearby cushion at him because she can’t reach to smack him like he deserves. It only just misses his head.

He’s kneeling now, reaching to close the suitcase for her, resting his weight on it to keep it closed. Whatever clock Kurt has going on this conversation is running down, so she readies herself for a question she might not want to answer.

“You knew, sweetheart. You just didn’t know why that crazy mixed up head of yours had rung the alarum bell so early.”

“Did you just quote _Macbeth _at me?! You fucking nerd!”__

__He grins at her, and then they both burst out laughing, and it breaks the tension that’s built up in the room without either of them really knowing how._ _

__Sure enough, the worst question comes when he’s too close to avoid looking at._ _

__“On a scale of Elaine Douglas to Brittany Pierce, what are we talking here?”_ _

__“Fuck you!” she replies through gritted teeth. “That’s low.”_ _

__“Answer,” he demands, firmly._ _

__“It doesn’t matter now.”_ _

__He climbs over her case and sits on it, right in front of her. When she backs away just to get some distance between them, her back hits the foot of her bed all too quickly._ _

__“It matters, Santana.”_ _

__“Closer to Brittany than I ever thought possible,” she admits, surprised when her voice starts to give out._ _

__Marley isn’t the only reason she doesn’t want to go to Boston. She doesn’t want to go because that’s where Brittany is too, dancing with the Boston Ballet after training in New York. They haven’t been anything more than polite texts and emails for years. On top of everything that’s happened today, the fact they’ll be in the same place and have planned to meet is completely fucking terrifying and leaves her feeling seventeen and vulnerable all over again._ _

__Suddenly, Marley’s behaviour makes a lot more sense. The more you want something the harder you fight to keep hold; even when that means you have to lie. Even when those lies mean that person eventually slips through your fingers._ _

__Kurt starts to blur in front of her, and before she knows it, she’s crying, really crying and she doesn’t know why. He scrambles to comfort her, sitting next to her on the floor, pulling her into his arms like he has hundreds of times before. Now she’s started, she doesn’t know she can stop._ _

__“It’s OK. It’s all going to be OK soon,” he soothes. “I promise you.”_ _

__It just makes her cry that little bit harder, because she wants so desperately to believe him, but she can’t see how it’ll ever be true. She’s never been lucky enough to get anything she ever wanted and keep hold of it. Most of the time, it’s her own fault._ _

__***_ _

__It’s too damn cold, and she’s tired, so incredibly tired, but she’ll keep going until she has to crawl home to bed only to do it all again tomorrow. She’s giving this production of _Evita_ everything she has because Will Schuester took a risk by hiring her – a calculated risk, but a risk nonetheless – and she doesn’t dare let him down. Eva Perón is her dream part. _ _

__Smoking isn’t the greatest of ideas, not when she has to make sure her voice is on top form, but the guy they’ve got to play her Ché is an obnoxious douchebag and he’s _really_ testing her patience, so she’ll let herself off for now. _ _

__She’s just debating going inside when the stage door opens and her gaze collides with someone familiar. It takes her a few seconds to fully make the connection because they look so different, but there, in front of her is Marley Rose, and she’s not a shy, wallflower of a girl anymore, she’s a grown woman, and a beautiful one at that looking the picture of elegance in a shift dress and heels while Santana looks decidedly less so, in her rehearsal uniform of sneakers, sweatpants and a t-shirt._ _

__“Santana?!” Marley exclaims, at much the same time she says “Marley?!” and they both laugh at each other’s awkwardness._ _

__She flicks away her cigarette, closing the distance between them._ _

__“It’s so good to see you!” she says, because it is, and they’re hugging before she knows it. “You look well,” she continues, breaking away when that hug feels too stiff and awkward to carry on._ _

__She can’t stop looking because Marley’s so different, so confident and at ease in her own skin that she can’t quite fathom how it happened so quickly. It’s only been four years, but she’s changed so much, and for the better._ _

__“So do you! What have you been up to?” Marley asks, excitedly, when she steps back to look at her._ _

__“Oh like you don’t know!”_ _

__She cringes a little because moments after she’s said it, she realises how conceited and ridiculous it sounds, but the casting news is literally everywhere, and news travels fast. Everyone knows everyone in the theatre community, so you hear about work and parts other people get even if you don’t want to._ _

__Marley laughs. “Quite the talk of the town, aren’t you, Miss Peron! I’m so pleased for you.”_ _

__The role reversal she’s experiencing is really _fucking_ weird. She wishes Kurt were here to witness it because there’s no way he’ll believe her without some kind of proof._ _

__His definition of ‘soon’ was a little off. She didn’t feel OK after a month settled in Boston with him and the rest of The Gallery Players. She didn’t feel OK after six, when she wore Portia like a second skin and they were headed for Broadway with raving reviews. It didn’t even happen after a year, when she and Brittany had reconnected, were well on the way to being much more than friends _and_ she waltzed in and took over the part of Amneris in _Aida_ from none other than Bree Leighton (the sweetest, most delicious revenge she’s ever tasted)._ _

__It happened four years later._ _

__Finally, she’s the girl in demand. She’s the one on TV and in magazines, but more than that, she’s happy, both personally and professionally for the first time in her life. She and Brittany have their own place near Kurt and Dave’s in Manhattan, she’s on the brink of what’s being hailed as the role of her career, and she has an engagement ring on her finger that she’ll never get tired of looking at._ _

__People always say that things happen for a reason, she hasn’t always been entirely sold on that. Everything she has now, she’s worked for, and worked hard, but maybe some of it is down to a twist or three of fate. She can’t think of any other explanation._ _

__“Yeah, it took a while to get here,” she admits, suddenly coy._ _

__She searches her jacket pockets for her lighter and cigarettes, lighting herself another and offering the pack to Marley. Surprisingly, she takes it and they both rest back against the wall, heads tilted to the sky, blowing out long plumes of smoke into the air._ _

__“You deserve it,” Marley declares, genuinely._ _

__Whenever she imagined them meeting, it was always cold, stilted and awkward; something to dread, and never as easy or comforting as this. It comes as something of a shock given the terms they parted on. Though amicable, it was still more painful to get over than she anticipated. She guesses the same is true for Marley._ _

__“And what brings you here?” she asks, with a smile._ _

__“Cinderella actually, just having some final chemistry readings.”_ _

__At that, her smile widens, because she’s pretty much perfect for it. She was perfect for it – if a little rough around the edges – when they knew each other, but now she can totally see it working. She has the right kind of temperament and the press will love her._ _

__“Nice casting,” she replies, elbowing her playfully._ _

__“I hope so. I’m no Laura Osnes though,” Marley comments, blushing._ _

__This is more like what she remembers._ _

__“You always had a really good voice! Now at least you have a bigger audience than me in the shower.”_ _

__Marley’s blush deepens and she runs a nervous hand through her hair. “Marymount agreed with you.”_ _

__She finds herself smiling again, because it seems Marley’s turned a lot of the lies she once told into truths instead._ _

__“They would’ve been nuts not to take you. That place is made for kids like you.”_ _

__“Ah,” Marley points. “Not really a kid anymore. Twenty-two now!”_ _

__“Sorry, I didn’t mean –”_ _

__“Hey, it’s fine,” Marley replies, touching Santana’s forearm briefly. “It’s strange to cross paths after all this time.”_ _

__When silence descends between them, it’s comfortable, but she knows they’ll have to talk about it at some point. It’s the elephant in the room, or rather, the parking lot. Just when she’s about to broach the subject, Marley does it for her._ _

__“I’m glad you did what you did.”_ _

__She’s barely able to hide her shock, “You are?”_ _

__Marley turns to look at her. “Yes. I think it needed to happen, I was just going along blindly, so wrapped up in all those lies that I couldn’t see it was hurting people.”_ _

__“I did some pretty shitty things to you too.”_ _

__“Maybe,” Marley concedes. “But you were right to be like that, not to trust me.”_ _

__“Doesn’t excuse it though,” she admits, because it’s true. Until she let herself love completely and openly, she wasn’t the greatest girlfriend material. “We were both young and stupid in different ways.”_ _

__“We were,” Marley echoes, sounding almost wistful._ _

__Once that’s out in the open, and they’ve brought a halt to the blame game, she feels lighter somehow. The baggage of guilt and regret that she’s been carrying around for all these years is gone. Marley seems to feel that too if her long, contented sigh is anything to go by. When she speaks again, it feels easy and normal, just like it was when they first met._ _

__“Does Cinderella have a prince?” she asks, teasingly, mostly out of politeness, but she’s more curious than she imagined._ _

__“Ha-ha. I’ll guess I’ll have to get used to that. Not a prince or princess in sight. Lots of frogs it seems though.”_ _

__“I know that well! It averages out, eventually. Time’s on your side.”_ _

__“I was just about to ask you if you were seeing anyone,” Marley begins, “But can I already see my answer!” she beams, lifting Santana’s hand to inspect her ring. “Wow, it’s beautiful.”_ _

__“Thank you,” she glances away, embarrassed under the weight of her scrutiny. “So’s she.”_ _

__“Brittany,” Marley breathes, nodding appreciatively. “She’s a lucky lady.”_ _

__“Oh, trust me, I’m the lucky one.”_ _

__The announcement and the ring are new, even if the engagement is long overdue, so it’s still odd to think about. The fact she’s going to be someone’s wife soon just about blows her mind. She’s still stuck on the fact Brittany said yes to her at all, and it was weeks ago. Truth be told, she’ll probably still feel like that in a decade._ _

__“I’m pleased for you both.”_ _

__Her immediate reaction is to say ‘really?’ but somehow she holds back and “That means a lot,” comes out instead. “I still feel kind of terrible about what happened though.”_ _

__“Oh,” Marley exclaims. “Please don’t. I needed to grow up. I needed to broaden my horizons. You did that, in more ways than one.”_ _

__And then, they’re laughing, in that real, infectious way that’s hard to stop and she doesn’t feel nearly as guilty anymore. Even though she was a causality of Marley’s mistakes and vice versa, she’s glad it happened, and she’s gladder still that they’re both in a better place having learned from it._ _

__“Glad to be of service,” she quips, and Marley’s smile grows brighter._ _

__“That’s more like the Santana Lopez I remember!”_ _

__“I mellowed out a little in my old age,” she replies, stubbing out her cigarette._ _

__“You’re not that old,” Marley swats at her playfully._ _

__“Right answer.”_ _

__When Marley flicks her cigarette away and turns to face her, it feels like the natural point for them to go back inside the theatre, but she doesn’t want to end it there and go back to hearing things third hand. She wants them to be friends. She wants to have this version of Marley – Melissa – in her life. They were good friends before they were anything else, and she never really got the chance to appreciate stage of their relationship. The age gap feels nowhere near as big now they’re in the same decade bracket._ _

__“Could we keep in touch if that’s not too weird?” Marley asks, nervously._ _

__“Of course!” Santana exclaims. After everything they went through, this is what bothers her? She really has changed._ _

__“Maybe we could catch up properly sometime, dinner maybe? You know, if Brittany’s fine with it?”_ _

__“I’d really like that,” she nods, reaching into her other pocket for her phone so they can swap details. “Brittany would be the first person to encourage me, so you have nothing to worry about,” she assures._ _

__“Good, that’s settled.”_ _

__It sounds trite, but it’s true. One of the first meaningful conversations they had over dinner – a date, but not a date at all – once they were past the stage of polite small talk was about what happened with Marley and how she dealt with it. She knows now that her reaction wasn’t just about Marley. It was about everything she hadn’t dealt with when it came to attraction, lust, being in love with and loving someone – she knows there’s a difference between those two things. It was about secret meetings with Allison Mackenzie back in high school. It was about Elaine Douglas and Danielle Fraser and sneaking into nightclubs with fake IDs. It was about the list of girls she can only remember by the colour of their eyes or the smell of their perfume because she never took time to learn their name. Mostly, it was about Brittany and searching for her in other people once she was stupid enough to let her go._ _

__There’s a lot of Brittany in Marley, and she didn’t realise how much until just now. Everything makes a lot more sense._ _

__They’re silent while they go through motions of copying down numbers and reading it back themselves, turning the screen towards each other for a final check. It’s nice to see Marley’s name in her phone again, if a little strange. This whole meeting could be described in exactly the same way._ _

__“Oh, I go by Melissa these days, Marley Rose is just my stage name,” Marley says, pointing at the screen to correct her. “Could we just start again?”_ _

__“Sure,” she hears herself say, a little surprised when she doesn’t hesitate to shake Marley’s hand when it’s offered._ _

__“Melissa Newman,” Marley offers, proudly._ _

__When Santana shakes her hand, she’s smiling too. “Santana Lopez.”_ _

__It’s such a small thing, but she can’t help but be struck by the importance of it. They both nod and smile recognising the weight of the moment, and it’s the closure they’ve both needed all these years. Marley opens her arms out and they hug each other again. It’s nowhere near as awkward as the one they shared earlier._ _

__“Take care,” she calls, when Marley starts to walk back toward the theatre._ _

__“Be happy,” Marley fires back, turning on her heels and flashing a knowing smile._ _

__She remembers. The “be happy” sounds a lot like “you too.”_ _

__“Be honest,” they say in unison, by way of a proper goodbye._ _

__For a second time, she stands watching Marley’s retreating figure. It’s the same as that afternoon and not the same at all. They’re very different people now. Older and wiser for the intervening years. She’s not sure if they’ll keep their promises or if they’ll just be another number in a contact list. Whatever happens from now on, they’ve laid some ghosts to rest. They might go to dinner, they might come to the opening night of each other’s shows or they might do nothing at all, but the possibly is there, and that’s good enough for her._ _

__It speaks to an absolution she never thought she’d reach._ _


End file.
